


On Ages of Thought and Seconds of Sleep

by vaeltaa



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Hallucinations, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaeltaa/pseuds/vaeltaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's startled by Silva's smooth accented voice and his muscles tighten. But obviously, there's no one there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Ages of Thought and Seconds of Sleep

Water cascades down his scarred back, warm but never hot enough. Bond turns the tap almost all the way to red and steadies himself with a hand on the black tiles. Facing yet another sleepless night, he seeks comfort in the scalding, steaming solitude of the shower. The hotel television has nothing but news channels and god knows he doesn't need that. 

He's drunk. 

M's still dead. 

And a pale ghost with dead eyes haunts his dreams. He dreams of being trapped in a coffin and rats eating him alive. So he doesn't sleep unless he knows the drink and pills are sufficient to dull the dreams to mere background noise. Bond strokes his half-erect cock with his other hand as the water continues to splash down his naked body.

He tries to think of women, but he's had so many they all merge into a shapeless blur in his mind. He keeps stroking, thinking of the feisty brunette from last week with the perfectly shaped tits, but the image in his mind won't focus. It blurs, changing again, and morphs into a blonde man dressed in black and his blood swells.

"This is a new low, James. Even for you."

He's startled by Silva's smooth accented voice and his muscles tighten. But obviously, there's no one there. He's alone and Silva's dead, his unclaimed body lying on some cold slab in the MI6 morgue. "I'm losing my bloody mind," Bond thinks, and turns off the shower. Grabbing a towel, he steps out and half-heartedly dries off, wrapping it around his waist. He reaches for the glass he left earlier next to the bathroom sink and swallows its bitter contents.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, fogging in the damp heat. He wipes a part of it clear, puts his glass down and closes his eyes. 

"You just can't let me go, hm?" Silva's voice is low and amused, and Bond feels his breath against his neck and large hands running down his back. Bond lets the towel drop to the floor and opens his eyes.

"Even in death, I am winning."

The whole mirror is clear now and Silva is chuckling against his ear, smiling back at Bond's reflection. Hands wrap around his narrow hips and grips his cock at the base and Bond groans against the touch. He watches Silva's lips in the mirror, kissing up his neck, running along his common carotid artery and stopping to open around his earlobe, sucking softly.

Silva is humming and the vibrations from his throat reverberate over his skin, making the small hairs on the back of his neck rise. The hand keeps stroking at a long, slow, agonizing pace and Bond's mouth falls open, sighing from deep within his chest and his eyelids flutter shut.

"No," Silva says, dragging a hand slowly up Bond's torso to grab his chin while the other fists his aching length. 

"Look at yourself." Silva pulls Bond's head up and back, and their eyes meet again in the mirror.

"See what the great double-oh-seven has been reduced to," he continues. "You think of me when you fuck, you dream of me at night... Oh my, what a beautiful mess."

Bond's breathing goes raw and the hand moves to wrap around his throat, gently at first then stronger, pressing down on his windpipe. He doesn't struggle. "Good, James," Silva mutters against his ear, speeding up the long strokes and pressing his own length against Bond's ass, water droplets still running down the inside of his legs.

A wheezing noise escapes Bond's choking troath as his chest heaves up and down, desperate for oxygen. He watches his complexion redden in the mirror, and feels his release building rapidly, the staggered blood supply to his brain darkening the edges of his vision. 

"Yes," Silva whispers, hot against his cheek. 

"Come for me, James."

He does.

With a guttural groan, Bond comes in slow spurts, grabbing the edge of the sink with both hands as air once again fills his lungs, and his vision clears. He leans over the sink and gasps, the room around him seemingly spinning. Silva's hands ghost over his arched back.

"I'll see you again when you give in to sleep, my dear James."

Bond looks up and sees only himself reflected back, but the voice is ever present in his mind. "We have all the time in the world, you know." Silva laughs.

"There's no cure for men like us."

Bond washes his own semen off his hand, and for the first time in weeks, he welcomes sleep with a tired heart.


End file.
